Way Out West
by APAccidentalAccount
Summary: 1873, the year the Transcontinental Railroad opened, connecting the East to the West. The country just got a whole lot smaller, leaving outlaws like Joel and Tess steppin' a mite faster to avoid the long arm of the law and takin' on jobs they wouldn't consider ordinarily. One such job is delivering a very special package with red hair and green eyes...Rating subject to change.


**AN: Wait a damn minute. THIS ISN'T PREPARATORY SCHOOL STORIES CHAPTER 3! No, it isn't. See, I've been sitting on this idea since September, and I've just now gotten around to putting it into words I like. Hence why PSS 3 has taken a back seat for now. This doesn't explain my almost three-month long hia****tus—that I blame on school projects, midterms, and laziness inbetween. I procrastinate an activity that is ultimately procrastination. *sigh* Well, this thingermajig is also for Jiuhuyyur, a real-life friend of mine, who demanded this in a review on PSS chapter 2.**

**Now I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has viewed, reviewed, favorited, or followed my stuff. Every time I get one of those emails, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like a four-week old kitten.**

**Anywho, western AU. Have fun, y'all, and let me know what you think!**

**(And if you have any alternate titles for this, that'd be great. I suck at titles.)**

Disclaimer: I don't own TLOU, or any of its characters...blah, blah, Naught Dog, blah, blah, all rights reserved.

* * *

A lone wagon in terrible disrepair crawled down the road like a wounded animal, lopsided and moaning with every painful turn of the wheels. The single ox strained in her yoke, her great head bowed as if her horns were too much a burden. Her legs shook with every step, her stringy muscles plainly visible when the folds of skin drew tight over where there used to be healthy fat. Yet no sweat or foam darkened her hide; the last of the water had gone to her driver that morning.

Even so, the young man's lips were dust-coated and cracked, blood oozing from where the dry skin split. He sat on the wagon in a fog, his gaze turned up to the blistering sun and the sky as blue as his maiden's eyes.

All at once, the ox stopped, her flanks heaving and shivering, jolting the wagon to a stop as well. This was enough to stir the young man from his stupor, but even so he could not quite believe his eyes.

There, just on the horizon, was a _town!_

He would have whooped for joy, had his ox not given a tremendous shudder and unceremoniously crumpled, dead in the harness.

He deflated and black despair crept into his chest. The town was miles off, yet. He couldn't make it that far on foot. He doubted he could make it more than two paces before keeling over like poor old Joanna.

He gave a sigh that was almost a sob and leaned back on the bench, the reins loose in his hands. He blinked up at the bluest sky he'd ever seen, crying but unable to weep.

"You're lookin' to be in a mite of trouble," a gravelly voice rumbled from his left. The young man let his head loll to the side, half-expecting the voice to be a trick of thirst.

A man, solid as can be, sat on a black-maned bay with mean eyes. From his scuffed boots to his battered hat, he was covered in dust, the dull colors of his clothes muted further to a nearly uniform dun. Even his unkempt beard was turned a dusty tan.

He stared out from under the wide brim of his hat with eyes like steel, and the young man understood why he could ride a horse that looked so mean; this man was twice whatever devil that horse had been born with, and then some. If the young man hadn't been so close to death, he'd have reached for his pistol.

"Dead ox, wagon fallin' to pieces, town more'n a couple miles off...I'd say more than a mite," a woman lazily drawled, and he turned his head to see her ride up on the right of the wagon, astride a calico holding its head high.

She was almost as dirty as the man, though it seemed like she made an effort to keep herself groomed. Her skin was only marginally dusty and a shade of golden brown that spoke of many hours under the sun. Her hair, where it was not contained by her hat or tucked behind her ears, was dark brown and combed shiny, but wild all the same.

She gave him a half-smile that would send a coyote running, her calf-brown eyes hard as flint and her six-shooter sitting easily on her hip.

A curly wolf and calamity jane, sent to deliver him from this mortal coil.

"I ain't...got nuthin'," he croaked weakly. He knew their faces, he did, and though he couldn't place where it was safest to assume he saw them on the Marshal's posters. "I'm jussa prospector. Ain't found nuthin'. Got nuthin' to interest you folks."

The woman shot a look at the man and gave the barest shake of her head, and the young prospector turned his head to watch the man's reaction.

His whiskers bristled with a hard frown, and he addressed the woman brusquely. "Then what the hell are we doin', Tess?"

The woman—Tess—flashed her teeth at him. "Look at him," she said, nodding to the young man. "He's just a chap. A tenderfoot. What's that you were sayin' about second chances?"

His already dour face soured further, frown lines etching deeper into his weathered face, and he gave Tess a dangerous stare. She waited, meeting him look-for-look. He sighed and shook his head, then dismounted and stepped up half-onto the wagon.

"Get off that woodpile, son," he said sternly, offering the young man a calloused hand.

The prospector hardly believed what he was seeing and, in a daze, accepted the help. The man's grip was like iron, to the young man's limp fingers. He was a bit perturbed by ease and familiarity of the action with which that curly wolf ended up hauling him off the wagon bench, but the prospector wasn't complaining, especially when the man went on to help him into the saddle of the mean-eyed bay.

The horse laid his ears back and tensed, huffing low, and the prospector would have bet five dollars he was fixing to fold up, but the man slapped his shoulders and the beast straightened out with a disgruntled noise.

"You hold on, now," he said to the young man, flipping the reins over the bay's head and taking hold of them a couple inches below the horse's chin.

The prospector obligingly took two fistfuls of black mane and the horse lurched forward, rocking in an easy motion, side-to-side. He was about to get lost in it, his eyes drooping closed, when Tess rode up beside him and shoved a canteen against his chest.

"Drink up, tenderfoot," she said simply, then spurred her calico into a neat trot and started to pull away. The man sighed and the bay flicked back his ears.

The young man did as he was told, forcing himself not to guzzle the sweet water as soon as it touched his parched lips for fear of spilling a single precious drop. The canteen ran empty far too soon, but at last his mouth was wet and the fog was lifting from his mind. As it lifted, it clicked in his head just where he'd seen the likeness of these folks.

He looked over at the curly wolf, mouth agape. "You're—!"

He didn't get to say anything else, as a bullet from a high ridge took offense to his innards.

* * *

The young man with sandy hair and gray eyes gaped at Joel, the canteen still suspended halfway to his mouth. "You're—!"

A rifle somewhere up above cracked, and crimson blossomed on the greenhorn's shirt. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he tumbled out of the saddle.

Rockefeller_—bless his eyes—_stayed stone-still save for a disgruntled snort.

"Son of a bitch," Joel muttered, climbing up into the saddle and spurring Rockefeller into a canter. The young bay happily obliged, kicking up a cloud of dust. Within seconds they'd caught up to Tess and Beau, weaving in an effort to discourage the sporadic gunfire.

"I told you!" he yelled over the wind. "I goddamn told you, Tess!"

She glared at him, bent low over Beau's neck. "Shove it, Texas! They shouldn't have been able to catch up that fast, and you damn well know it! We rode all night to see to it!"

He glared right back and dug his heels into Rockefeller's sides, spurring the stallion into a faster gait. Beau lengthened his stride without being told, keeping even with the mustang. The horses managed to keep the breakneck pace well out of range from the hills, but they started to bake after a while. Their riders let them slow to a walk, their flanks heaving and foaming, nostrils blown so wide pink was visible.

Tess shook her head and sighed, rubbing her face. "Weren't natural," she said at last. "There's no way they should've caught up to us. No way they should've been able to set up a bushwhack."

Joel sighed as well and wound Rockefeller's reins around his fist. "They musta sent word ahead. Drummed up a few fellers in town to help. God knows we've stepped on enough toes."

Tess frowned down at her saddle horn, her brow knit together. "This here's a sizable establishment," she said, lifting her chin to gesture to the town that was half a mile closer. "Way I figure it, we can lay low for a while, wait for Robert's boy to show up. Get this—" Tess slapped one of her saddlebags. "—off our hands."

Joel scowled. "If that weasel's check bounces one more time…"

"Oh, it won't," Tess muttered darkly. "For his sake, it won't…"

* * *

They rode into town casually, careful to give off an air of 'weary traveller' that would let them hide their faces beneath the brims of their hats. Their horses certainly looked the part; Beau's white-and-brown hide was more brown than white and foam dripped from his lips, while Rockefeller was streaked with dust and his russet coat darkened with sweat.

Tess led the way, rocking easy in her saddle with her head down, Rockefeller keeping his nose placidly by Beau's tail instead of trying to take the lead. For once.

Tess never really told Joel where they'd be meeting a contact, but that was alright. He wasn't the brains of the outfit and he didn't much have a powerful need to know things beyond what they had to do to get paid, anyway. Like Rockefeller, he was content to let her take point in 'polite' society.

"Texas." Joel tilted his head slightly to show he was listening, and Tess continued without looking back at him. "We just passed an inn. Ride back and get us a room, then meet me at the saloon." She paused. "The seedy one."

He nodded and peeled away, walking Rockefeller back to the two-story building with 'INN' printed on its front in big, white letters. He dismounted at the hitch and looped the stallion's reins around the post in a loose knot.

"Take your horse to the stable, sir?" a high, thin voice piped up from his elbow. Joel frowned down at the young boy. He had bright, eager eyes, a full face, and a mouth full of more gaps than teeth. Too young and too weak to handle any horse half the high binder Rockefeller was.

Joel shook his head. "But fetch him water and there's a nickel in it for you."

The boy grinned. "At once, sir!" he chirped, and then the lad was off.

Joel sighed and patted the bay's neck, then pulled open the door to the inn.

The shutters, rough and shoddy, were thrown open to encourage the barest of non-existent breezes to flow through. The floor looked to have been good at one point, but the wood had warped and grown brittle; poorly mended patches of a different lumber stood out from the original. But the walls had a fresh coat of green paint, the furniture was well-kept, and all surfaces were free of the dust that permeated everything this far West.

A young woman with wine-colored eyes looked up at his entrance and paled slightly, placing her hands casually below the counter.

_Likely reachin' for a scatter gun,_ Joel mused with a bitterness that was more reflex than anything sincere.

He walked to the counter and she blanched further, looking fit to faint. He scoffed internally at that; surely she'd seen her fair share of ruffians. Then again, she barely looked to be sixteen. It was entirely possible she just started covering the front desk for her pa.

"Howdy," he greeted her, touching the brim of his hat. She nervously bobbed her head at him and managed a small smile.

"Howdy," she replied, her high voice surprisingly steady. "Welcome to Clearspring Inn. May I help you with somethin'?"

"Need a room for three days," Joel said. "With two beds, if you have one."

She frowned in thought, her nervousness starting to fade in the face of civil business. "I don't think we have anythin' like that, sir, but we do have a couple of rooms with a double bed. Will that be alright?"

He nodded. "That's fine. How much?"

"Three dollars, sir."

The price almost caused him to raise his eyebrows. "That include meals?"

She nodded, any trace of fear gone, replaced with the casual, friendly face of a business owner. But she still kept her hands beneath the counter. Her pa would be proud.

Joel reached into his coat pocket and slipped three bills off the wad, then withdrew his hand and placed the money on the counter. She picked it up, smiled tightly, and without turning her back on him retrieved a key off of one of the many hooks on the wall behind her. She set it on the counter where the money was.

"Room twelve," she said. "Up the stairs and down the hall to the left. It'll be on the very end, facin' the street."

Joel picked up the key and touched the brim of his hat again, turning and walking out the door.

"I watered your horse, sir!" the boy reported eagerly as soon as Joel stepped outside. "He tried to bite me, but I've had plenty of practice dodgin' ol' Quicksilver—that's my daddy's beast—and then someone came up and tried to steal him when I wasn't lookin', but—"

The boy cut himself off and pointed to the body sprawled in the dust behind Rockefeller with a dent in his skull roughly the shape of a hoof.

"Is he one of them injun horses?" he asked excitedly. "Or an ol' Cavalry beast?"

"You ask too many questions, boy," Joel muttered, fishing a nickel out of his pocket and handing it to the kid. He sheepishly accepted the coin and scuffed his shoe on the ground.

"Sorry, stranger. He's just got such a devil in him, like Quicksilver."

Joel made a noise of acknowledgement and untied Rockefeller, then led him toward the inn's stables. The boy trotted after him and he squashed a feeling of annoyance.

"Can I help you with him? Fetch you tools and such? I can—"

"Son," Joel rumbled, cutting him off sharply. "I'll tend him, myself."

"Yes, sir," the boy said quietly, and scampered off.

Joel shook his head and sighed, turning the horse into the long building.

There was another hitch in the walkway between stables. He tied Rockefeller's reins to it, then set to work. The young bay twitched restlessly, turning his head to look around and shifting his weight. Joel twitched his reins and roughly patted his neck. Rockefeller settled with a huff, laying one ear back. He kept steady as Joel hauled the saddlebags from his withers and rump and sighed when the saddle was removed, cooler air flowing across his sweat-soaked back.

Joel set the saddle on a nearby rack and fetched the curry comb and scrub brush from his saddlebags. He started in on Rockefeller's coat with the scrub brush, moving it against the grain of his hide, freeing dirt and dust caught in his coat. Joel then brushed it back down until it shined where it wasn't wet. He switched out the scrub brush for the curry comb and ran it through the bay's mane, untangling knots and freeing bits of debris.

He packed the brushes back into one of the bags and gave Rockefeller a stern look as he pulled out the hoof pick. The horse huffed and flicked his ears back, eyeing the metal instrument. Joel knelt down on Rockefeller's right side and pinched his fetlock. He heard the leather reins snap taut behind him and teeth click a few inches from the collar of his coat just as Rockefeller jerked his leg out of Joel's hands and stomped, huffing.

Joel chuckled and patted the horse's shoulder. "Nice try, you devil. I know your ways."

He grabbed Rockefeller's foot again and pinched the fetlock a little harder. Reluctantly, the bay lifted his foot and let Joel check for rocks. He didn't fight again until Joel reached his left hind leg, where he lashed out with a fury, nearly striking Joel's shoulder.

"Hey! Hey, settle! Settle."

The horse settled with a disgruntled rumble, his ears back and nostrils flared, looking mean enough to bite a rattlesnake. Joel pinched his hock again and Rockefeller lifted his leg.

There, lodged in the cleft of his frog, was a tooth. Joel chuckled and picked it out, then let the horse put his leg down.

"Now let's get you all boarded up, yeah?" He untied the reins and led the bay into the nearest empty stall, quietly approving of the fact it was furnished with fresh bedding, clean water, and some feed in the trough. He realized with a start the boy must have prepared the stall; no inn, especially one like this, would have the resources to keep every stall ready for occupation. Joel made a mental note to give him another nickel the next time he saw him.

He shut the stall door just as Rockefeller surged forward to get out, but the stall was made of sturdier stuff than what the horse could dish out. The door rattled badly, but the wood didn't crack and the metal didn't bend. He patted his horse's neck, then unbridled him, sliding the top strap over his ears and catching the snaffle bit when he spit it out.

"See you in the mornin', Devil," Joel said, laying the bridle across Rockefeller's saddle. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulders and headed back for the inn, intending to get his things stowed and the room properly set up before joining Tess.

* * *

At midday, the saloon was quiet and mostly empty, occupied only by a couple of old hands fresh off the trail, drinking quietly over a game of Faro, and several solitary drinkers. A sucker was passed out in a chair near the back, two empty bottles of rotgut at his feet and another dangling from his slack fingers.

The bartender cleaned glasses with a stained rag, carrying on quiet conversation with what appeared to be the resident painted lady, who leaned on the shiny, well-kept bar.

No one paid any mind to the dickering in the back corner of the saloon.

Or, rather, the dickering of Samson, one of Robert's northern boys. Tess was having none of it.

"—he said to assure you—"

"He can shove those damn 'assurances' up his ass," she growled, glaring at the nancy sitting across from her. He held up his uncalloused hands appeasingly and smiled at her with straight, white teeth.

"You're upset. I understand that," he said gently. "The fact of the matter is it just isn't possible to pay you in full at this time."

"So instead you bring me this bullshit?" Tess spat, flicking her fingers dismissively at the fifteen dollars sitting on the table, hidden from potential prying eyes by her hat conveniently placed at the end of the table. "The deal was eighty, starting price. What we found out there bumps it up to one-eighty, easy, as that little shit Jacob should've told him."

"You'll get that extra hundred as soon as we evaluate what exactly you've found," Samson said smoothly, folding his hands on the table. "Right now you're only getting the eighty."

"Right now I'm only getting fifteen _goddamn_ dollars and mighty wrathy," she snarled, leaning forward. Samson's mouth tightened and he leaned back a little. He quickly forced a smile.

"Now, Tess—"

Joel slid into the booth beside Samson, crowding him into the corner. The smaller man gasped and shrunk away, half in surprise, half in actual fear. Tess forced down a smirk; Joel could move mighty quietly when he felt so inclined, for a man of his size. Better yet, he always knew exactly what she needed before she asked for it. He'd put Samson off-balance, and now she could crack down on him.

"Where's our money?"

"I—I told you," Samson replied unsteadily, scooting a bit further away from Joel. "It can't be transported at present. I'm just a liaison to pass on a message and part of the sum."

"Horse shit," Tess snapped. "Robert's a mouth-bet and you damn well know it. Why don't we have our money?"

Samson's face screwed up in terrible distress and he wrung his hands. "Dammit, Tess, I can't tell you!" He pushed his sandy hair back with both hands and sighed heavily. "I would if I could, but I can't! He didn't even tell _me._ He just handed me the fifteen dollars and told me to hop on a train out here and wait until you showed up."

Joel turned his head, watching Samson blankly. Tess leaned forward slightly, interest piqued. "Tell me what's been goin' on."

Samson took a deep breath and glanced nervously at Joel. "I don't know. He's taking on a lot of manpower that he can't possibly have the money to pay, but that's it. That's all I know, I swear." He paused and Tess could tell he had to force himself from glancing about the room. "Something isn't right, Tess. I don't know what it is, but I don't like it. If I were you, I'd take the money and cut ties with Robert."

She gritted her teeth and knew in her gut Samson was right, but she couldn't walk away from this job, which would be walking away from an entire arrangement. Robert was a slimy bastard, but he was one of the few folks in the business she could stomach working with. All the rest got into far nastier things, most involving dealings in flesh, and there were only so many lines she'd cross.

Tess pushed the fifteen dollars back toward Samson. "You take this back to Robert and you tell him we want our eighty dollars before we give this—" she patted her breast pocket, causing the slip of very important paper to crinkle. "—to whoever he sends to meet with us."

He slowly picked up the money, glancing up at her every half-second just in case she changed her mind. Joel stood up and let Samson slide out of the booth. He put on his hat, gave them one last meaningful look, and departed.

Joel sank into the seat across from Tess and sighed heavily, taking off his hat and putting it next to hers. He frowned down at the table and rubbed his beard, sending off a small cloud of dust. Tess's lips twitched at the sight and he glanced up, catching the movement.

"You need to bathe," she said wryly, by way of explanation. He snorted and she could've sworn she saw a faint smile beneath his scruff.

"You ain't exactly fresh as a daisy, either," he shot back easily. That was _definitely_ a smile she saw. She smiled back and was fixing to say something when he continued, his smile gone and his eyes as expressive as granite once more. "I don't like this."

Tess sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I don't, either. It's not like we have much of a choice."

"The hell we don't," Joel rumbled, frowning. "Plenty of folk who'd snap up those munitions. Why're we dancin' to Robert's tune when we can cut him out entirely, sell straight to the source?"

"We've been over this," Tess muttered irritably. "We aren't decent folk, Joel. We can't sell to the source because our sources are the rich, respectable kind. They wouldn't deal with us. They deal with_ Robert."_

"So we go to a different middle—"

"Joel, did I solicit your thoughts on this matter?" she cut across him. He clamped his jaw shut and sat very straight, his steely eyes going even colder. He said nothing. "Then keep your damn lip buttoned."

Tess got up and put on her hat, stopping by the bar to drop a half-dollar on it; it was rude to come in and leave without ordering anything. She was out the door directly after, not checking once to see if Joel followed.


End file.
